“What do you want me to say?”
How many times have I asked this question? How often have these words left my mouth, how many times have they circled in my thoughts? What do you want me to say? I know better than to expect an answer. You don’t have to say it for me to know the truth. I’m smarter than you think. I’m stronger than you think.
You want my symptoms? Fine. I’ll do that.
Do you know what it’s like to have lost all interest in the things you once loved? Do you know what it feels like to have the pleasure of life drain out of your veins?
Do you constantly feel downtrodden? Hopeless?
At night, it’s hard for me to sleep. Then when I do fall asleep, getting up might as well be in the realm of “near impossible.”
I might not be hungry, but I can’t seem to stop eating. Do you think the weight I’ve gained is intentional? Do you think I like looking like this? Do you think I’m happy when I look in the mirror and all I see is the fat around my face or how my torso seems to ballon past my arms? Do you think I overeat because I’m hungry?
Sometimes I think I’m not good enough. Sometimes I look at you, and I wonder why I’m never making you proud. Why don’t you smile when I come in the room? Why don’t you ask me to sit with you anymore? Why don’t you notice when I’m trying not to cry?
My life is falling apart and I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t concentrate long enough to make anything matter. I can’t find the passion to make those changes (though I know I need to). Sometimes I just want to sit here, stare at this screne, and writing nothing.
You wanted a confession. Now you’re getting what you asked for. Is it painful, to read a list of facts? Does your stomach clench? Does your mouth go dry? Do you even care? I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your tears. I simply want you to understand that beneath this uncaring, unaffected visage is a thousand years’ worth of bursting fear.
Don’t get me wrong, though. When I’m with my friends or family, I’m happy enough. I may not want to be there, and I may be checking the time to see when I’m going to be able to leave, but the happiness I show is only half-true. I’m good at acting. A decade of pratice makes it all seem so real. Yet when I go home, the warmth blooming through me fades away and I’m curled up in a chair, or in my bed, feeling cold and drained.
You wanted this. These words, these are one’s I’d like to keep hidden. Yet I also know that at times its best for the darkness to have a voice so its own truths can be spoken. I’m not perfect. I’m a human. I’m still young and learning, fighting this thing we call “depression” or, as someone once said, “Self-Loathing.” I call it “dissatisfaction.”
All are true, if I dare admit it.
Now I can ask you something in return.
Tell me, faceless watchers, do you like what you see?
When you meet me on the street, or cross paths over Internet Reef…
…when you open your eyes, do you see beyond the mask and understand me?